


don't you wish i would

by vowelinthug



Category: Black Sails
Genre: Episode Related, Intercrural Sex, M/M, Plans
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-12-27
Updated: 2016-12-27
Packaged: 2018-09-12 12:54:29
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,778
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9072562
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/vowelinthug/pseuds/vowelinthug
Summary: 2x01 missing scene diptych because flint has plans and silver is helpful and listen at some point in canon silver changed in front of flint





	

**Author's Note:**

> everyone is out here freaking out over season 4 previews
> 
> and i'm over here micro-analyzing scenes from two seasons ago
> 
> ¯\\_(ツ)_/¯

* * *

 

An extraordinary thing was happening.

Flint was exhausted. That wasn’t the extraordinary thing. Salt stung every cut, scrape and bullet wound in his damned, aching body, and the pain was close to overwhelming. That also wasn’t the unusual thing.

A man stood in front of him, practically begging to die. That also, honestly, wasn’t that out of place.

Here was the extraordinary thing: John Silver was still talking, but Flint was lowering his knife.

“Might you consider, for a fucking moment,” Silver said in an urgent whisper, half his face hidden in shadow, ”that your distrust in me is completely unwarranted?”

Flint listened the way he did whenever someone was telling him something true he didn’t want to hear: with begrudging attention, yet still keeping one ear open for a way out of the conversation. His knife was no longer pressed into Silver’s neck but he let it rest on his collarbone. He kept himself poised, pressed into Silver, in case the urge to stab him returned. Silver smelled like seawater, his body warm as sand, molding for Flint’s body, his eyes cautiously furious.

Flint — got Silver. His whole thing, Flint understood it. And he knew Silver did, too. Silver knew just how to treat people the way they needed to be treated, which wasn't something Flint had ever been very good at. Silver always knew when to smile at someone, when to hide from them, when to kill them. Silver knew what he looked like and he knew how to use it — could look childish, idiotic, innocent, seductive, alluring the way stones skip on water. Not only did that make Silver extremely dangerous, but it also made him a complete asshole.

Right now, though, Silver seemed too frustrated with Flint to try and appease him. He was surprised with how much he liked being able to get under Silver’s skin like that. Flint shifted against him as he listened, trying not to press too close. He didn't have time for this. Silver was tempting the way killing a man was tempting. It would feel so satisfying and so, _so_ good in the moment, while it was happening, but _Christ_ would it make life difficult for him in the long run.

Silver’s face changed, became less imploring and more knowing. “When you were sinking to the bottom of the sea, who do you imagine it was that dragged you onto that beach?”

Flint honestly hadn’t thought about it. He wanted to say he didn’t ask Silver to do that, didn’t want him to, and he sure as shit didn’t owe Silver for it, but the denial felt hollow even to him. Not when he’d had a perfectly good out handed to him earlier today that he didn't take. Not when he could have spat in Dufresne’s face, cursed them all and died easily with a rope around his neck. Not when he was currently stuck in the middle of the ocean, armed with one knife and one shitty ship cook, attempting to steal a fully-manned Spanish fucking warship, and this was a path he’d willingly chosen for himself.  

“Brace yourself,” Silver said, his eyes darkening just slightly,  “but I’m the only person within a hundred miles of here who doesn’t want to see you dead.”

He trailed off as they heard footsteps pounding overhead, voices getting louder. Thank God, a way to end this conversation. Flint saw the startled look pass over his face, like he’d completely forgotten what they were in the middle of, too busy trying to make his point.

Flint moved to stand in front of Silver, backing them both up into the shadows beneath the stairs as a sailor wandered by, exhaustedly dropping his jacket to the floor. Flint couldn’t tell if whatever noise stopped the sailor came from him or Silver, but he wasn’t about to let the man turn all the way around to find out.

Flint wrapped one hand across the sailor’s mouth, dragging him back into the shadows as he raised his knife. But the sailor got one hand in between, blocking the blade from entering his heart. He struggled against Flint, and they fell further back until they hit a wall.

Not a wall. Silver. Flint felt him, solid and warm against him as he tried to push the knife against the sailor’s grip, trying to pierce the chest. But then the sailor reared back, bucking hard, and Silver let out a grunt, a hot puff of air against Flint’s ear, and Flint’s mind just kind of blinked at that, too overcome with warring sensations to focus on any specific one. That was his excuse for how the sailor was able to knock Flint’s knife out of his hand.

Which was — fine. Flint didn’t actually want to get bloodstains on the clothes anyway. He wanted to move away from Silver but the sailor was pinning him there, scratching and thrashing against his hands.

Flint moved quickly, removing the hand from the sailor’s mouth and wrapping his arm hard around his throat, squeezing as much as he could to silence him as he tried to get a grip on the man’s head to snap the neck. But the man’s hair was too oiled and he couldn’t maintain his hold. And the sailor kept making small gasping noises, and suddenly Flint was back in his cabin of the _Walrus_ , on the floor with Gates in his arms, and for a second he just _couldn’t_. He couldn’t do it anymore. His arms ached with the strain of everything they’d built up and destroyed, and he felt as though the muscle, the skin, the bones would all tear away, rip apart, fall to the floor in bits and scraps.

His grip around the sailor’s throat slackened just slightly, enough for the sailor’s gasps to turn to choked words, half-silent but much, much too loud. They would have died then, the two of them, were it not for Silver’s hand coming up behind him and pressing down hard on the sailor’s mouth. His other hand grabbed the sailor’s wrist, tugging it away from where he had been pounding at Flint’s arm.

“ _Captain_ ,” Silver hissed into his ear, his arms and legs framing Flint steadily. “ _Come on._ ”

Flint was dealing with several things at one time and he had always been shit at multitasking. But Silver, calling him “Captain” and holding him tight, the solidity of him pressed into his back, brought him back to the important things in life. He tightened his hold on the sailor’s throat, cupping the man’s face almost delicately, while finally getting that firm grip on the other side.

The sailor bucked hard against them again, realizing now that his attackers were multiple, and English. But his noises were muffled by Silver’s hand, and with the two of them gripping him tight, he had nowhere else to go. Flint twisted hard until they heard the neck snap, and the sailor stilled instantly.

They held him for a moment, listening to see if anyone else had heard the struggle, or the break. But no one else came down the stairs.

Flint could feel Silver trembling behind him, harsh breathing traveling own his spine. Slowly Silver’s hand fell from the sailor’s mouth and Flint was able to quietly lower him to the ground. But when he stood straight again he was still pressed along the front of Silver, the hand that had silenced the sailor coming up to Flint’s hip to steady him.

They stood there, catching their breath, waiting to see if anyone else would walk by. Silver was still shaking just a little. Flint desperately wanted to know if it was because they had just killed a man, or for some other reason. He looked over his shoulder to catch Silver’s eye, but in the shadows under the stairs he could only feel Silver’s shuddering breaths warming his cheek. He wanted to _see_ and the only way it seemed to do that was for him to move closer.

But then the ship swayed heavily to one side, and the dead sailor’s hand dropped onto Flint’s bare foot, and Flint really _was_ shit at multitasking and this was _not_ the time. If they weren’t dead later, maybe he could reward himself by making a mistake he’d actually enjoy for once. So he stepped away from Silver, placing the dead man in between them, and Silver didn’t protest.

Flint bent down and began unlacing the dead man’s boots. “Take off your clothes.”

“What?” said Silver in a loud whisper. “Right now?”

Flint tugged off the boot and was about to move onto the next one when he stopped. “What?”

“Oh.” Silver looked at the sailor, then at Flint, then back to the sailor again. “ _Ohhh._ Okay. That makes  — yeah.” He started untucking his shirt from his trousers.

“‘ _Right now_?’”

“Fuck off.” Silver’s face was still partially shadowed, but Flint thought he might have been flushing just a bit. “It’s not like you informed me of the plan at any point in time.”

Flint shook his head, leaning forward over the dead man to remove his clothes. “Why _else_ would I want you to take off your clothes right... now….” He looked up at Silver and the last couple words died in his mouth.

Silver was standing above him — because _Christ_ , Flint was _kneeling_ — without his shirt. His chest was cut, smooth and soft-looking in the cracks of afternoon sun piercing through the beams of the ship. Dust danced around him in the light, sticking to the sweat on his skin and in his hair but he seemed unbothered by it, raising one eyebrow at Flint. He’d been in the process of removing his pants when he’d paused at Flint’s question, leaving exposed the slim waist and the sharp vee of his hip bones pointing like an arrow to the hairy base of his cock, just visible now over the waistline of his trousers.

“Well, I surely don’t know, Captain,” Silver said softly, his eyes knowing again, and dark. “I’m not the one with all the plans.”

And that was probably the biggest lie Silver had ever told. It was dark under the stairs but he saw Silver now with such clarity it was as though someone had lit a candle between them, and the only one between them was a dead man. Flint watched in shock as Silver looked him up and down, not deterred in the slightest by the dead sailor to appreciate the sight of Flint on his knees. His hands went back to his trousers, as though about to pull them all the way down.

Flint stood abruptly. He still held the sailor’s shoe, and he shoved it into Silver’s hands.

“I’m going to find my own boots,” he said, hoping his own face was sufficiently shadowed. Silver’s smirk told him it didn’t matter either way. “If you can manage it, try to get dressed without almost getting us killed again.”

He tried to leave quickly, but he wasn’t fast enough to miss Silver’s low, “ _Aye, Captain._ ” Or the soft sound of trousers hitting the floor.

 

* * *

 

“Tell me I’m wrong.”

Silver was a deadly bird to have singing in his ear. Every encouragement, every suggestion, should have sounded like a nail being hammered into a coffin. Should have sounded like a siren song. Instead, every word made sense to Flint, seemed undeniable and true, which was what made him so fucking bad to have around.

But Thomas’s words were bubbling up inside him, echoes from his distant history, ones he hadn’t allowed himself to hear for so long. _Everyone needs a partner._

When Thomas had said it, the idea of partnership had seemed so bright, so hopeful. Innocent, because their actions had been all those things. Though if that’s the case, Silver’s partnership befit him now perfectly, their situation and their goals. It made sense. It’s not like Flint was the same person on his side of the whole either.

Flint looked back at Silver. The shit was still smirking, standing much too close so as to keep his voice low. His stolen clothes smelled faintly of oil and someone else’s smoke, the reddish shade of the shirt matching the exposed skin on the neck.

“There is something in all of this,” Silver went on, voice still low, “you seem to be forgetting.”

“And what’s that?”

“You were _right._ ” Silver’s smirk grew into a proper grin. “About _everything_ , Captain. You found the gold when everyone said it couldn’t be done. You were _right_.”

A hundred people in the last decade had called him Captain. No one had ever said it the way Silver did.

“We left it buried on a beach,” Flint said. “Including your share. So I don’t know what you’re so fucking pleased about.”

“Because you were _right_ and they all know it.” Silver looked over his shoulder at the men on the lower deck, going about their duties and obviously avoiding the hell out of them. “They all know the gold was exactly where we’d said it would be, and had it not been for a storm and them fighting you, we’d all be rich men by now. Men like them? They spend their whole lives being so fucking wrong. So often are they wrong that coming across a man who is _right_ must be like coming across _God_. They —”

“I know what you’re doing.”

Silver looked back at him, blinking. “Pardon?”

“I’m not an idiot,” Flint said, because he wasn’t. He also wasn’t moving away. “You’re trying to manipulate me. Rather blatantly in fact, which I’ll put down to the fact that you’re probably just as exhausted as I am, because I know you can be more subtle than that.”

Silver scowled. “I was being _honest_. Remember how I said you can trust me to be honest, as I have nothing to gain by lying to you?”

“Well, then,” said Flint, “ _honestly_ get to your fucking point.”

Silver huffed, frowning at him for a moment longer before looking down. The stone skipped, from annoyed to… something else. Shyness? Flint couldn’t quite tell. It was one he’d yet to see on Silver’s face.

“My _point_ was,” Silver said, fiddling with the fringe of his stolen belt, “that you were _right_ , and I thought you might like to celebrate that fact.”

There wasn’t much cause for celebration. He’d lost his ship, his captaincy. His Quartermaster and Bo’sun. He had no gold. He’d be returning to Miranda a complete failure. And he got fucking shot. What was there to celebrate?

But he _had_ been right, Silver was telling the truth about that. And he wouldn’t be returning to Nassau with nothing to show for it. Flint would make sure of it, and he knew, suddenly, that so would Silver. He still didn’t trust Silver and likely never would, but he knew he was alive because of him. He also knew he’d made a promise to himself earlier today, about enjoying a mistake for a change. Which, in Flint’s mind, was the only proper thing to do when the only things to celebrate were a life he hadn’t asked for and vindication from a thief.

“You should take off those clothes,” Flint said. “Wearing the garments of a man you killed is entirely without taste.”

Silver looked up at him. Flint caught the tail end of shock jumping into sly eagerness. “I didn’t kill anyone,” he said, leaning closer. “That was all you.”

“Then you held him still while I killed him,” said Flint. “You’d prefer to argue semantics with me?”

“No,” said Silver. “I’d prefer to take off these clothes."  

Before Flint could let himself think too hard about it he turned swiftly, and even over the wind, the water, the creak of the ship, he could keenly hear Silver’s soft footsteps following. As they made their way below deck, the crew parted for them like the Red Sea. Everyone’s gaze was averted. Flint couldn’t tell if it was fear of him, shame of their mutiny, some sort of half-assed lingering respect, or something else entirely, but he didn’t doubt that though no one looked at them as they disappeared from view, everyone was still watching them go.

They wandered through the ship galley and down into the berth, but everywhere there was always someone. Flint hadn’t honestly thought this many men had survived their initial encounter with the Spanish. He snatched a new shirt hanging from a hammock as they silently walked. Flint could hardly believe it was only earlier that day he and Silver had pad barefoot through these beds, now filled with ghosts and empty air. They headed down another set of stairs into the cargo hold, lit by only a few failing lanterns. Finally, a place without people.

Now that they were finally alone, though, Flint had to reckon with the question of just _what_ the fuck he thought he was doing and why he fucking shouldn’t do it. Why he should just go find an empty hammock to pass out in for the next twenty hours and dream of getting his godawful shitting life back. He felt not unlike how he had felt ten years earlier, standing on the beaches of Nassau for the first time. He’d been flying apart, mind completely asunder, unhinged. He’d done a good many regrettable things then, and at the time he’d thought they’d been the only things left to do — until Gates found him, settled him somewhat. Helped him aim the bullet that was his whole being. Now he was entirely composed of gunpowder, seeking a match to spark it all and let him forever go up in smoke. And take everyone else out with him.

But when he turned around, intending to say _something_ , Silver had already removed his jacket and was pulling his shirt over his head again. With his face momentarily obscured, Flint allowed himself to look at the expanse of Silver once more, the unmarked skin, the visible vein twisting on his belly over his waistband, his nipples tightening in the cool air. Flint had meant just to look before telling Silver to forget it, but then Silver was dropping his shirt to the floor and grabbing Flint by the front of his, the expression clear on his face he knew Flint had been about to bolt.

He fisted Flint’s shirt and pulled at him without saying a word. Flint let himself edge a couple steps closer, happy to let Silver lead, if only for this particular moment.

And then Silver was tugging up Flint’s dirty, torn, bloody shirt, and there was no way to deny anything now even if he wanted to. Flint let go of the new shirt he’d grabbed as Silver did the same with the old one, and stood there while Silver looked at him with obvious heat, which was… strange. Flint had learned early — very early, earlier than Captain Flint had even existed — that men at sea fucked to satisfy an urge and nothing more, not because of any appreciation for the male form. The hunger in Silver’s eyes as they swept over Flint’s chest, taking in every inch of sunburn, freckle, muscle, and scar — it was unsettling to Flint. Then Silver frowned, which comforted Flint a bit until Silver reached out and touched his injured shoulder.

Silver plucked at the makeshift bandage, still tacked with sand despite the earlier swim. He tsked. “Have to bandage that for you again,” he said.

It hit Flint then, like it had when Silver revealed it was he who prevented his drowning. If Silver was the only one who’d bothered saving him, it stands to reason he was the only one who’d cared to aid his injury. The only one who’d thought to bandage his bullet hole, the one who’d been able to quell the bleeding. It overwhelmed Flint completely, like he’d finally found that match to light him all the way up. He wanted to die all over again but did the next best thing and kissed Silver.

Silver jumped at the sudden contact but responded quickly, ready as always to roll with whatever Flint laid out for him, and sucked on Flint’s bottom lip. This was also unusual for men on ships, unnecessary, the kind of thing one did to please women, but kissing Silver now, Flint didn’t know how he’d survived this long without the scratch of someone else’s stubble around his mouth. Without the strong grip of large hands covering his ribcage. He pressed closer to Silver, uncaring of his bullet wound. The pressure wouldn’t kill him but God, maybe if he got close enough it would.

He slipped his thigh between Silver’s legs, felt the incredible heat of his cock even between two layers of clothes. He tried to swallow Silver’s groan, but the dark, desperate noise slipped out some, like the rising waters in the cracks of a sinking ship. Silver’s hips rose at an even pace along Flint’s leg, a maddening rhythm, one he thought Silver could probably keep up for hours. But they didn’t have hours, so Flint pushed Silver back into the wall behind him.

Down there, the walls were curved with the bottom of the ship, and so Silver slouched with it, his eyes hooded in the dim lamplight. Without a word he undid his belt and let it drop to the floor. Flint had to stop himself from crowding against him again, struggling to take off his own belt without taking his eyes off Silver.

“Do you —” Flint said heavily, loosely rubbing his crotch, focused on Silver’s smooth rising chest. “Do you have — anything —?”

Silver paused in lowering his trousers, a mirror of the image he’d made earlier that day. He bent down and retrieved the sailor’s jacket, dug out of the inner pocket a small jar. The oil must have been used for the man’s hair, but there was less than half an inch of it left.

He frowned at the jar, considering it as he tilted it to one side. “That’s not nearly enough to fuck me,” Silver said.

Flint wrapped his hand around it and kissed him again. Kept kissing him until he felt Silver’s fingers loosen on the jar and he was able to take it from him. He pulled back but kept his face close.

“Say it again,” Flint said quietly.

Silver searched his face with a small frown before he understood, and then gave Flint that slow smile again.

“You were _right.”_ Silver moved in to kiss him again but Flint leaned further back, waiting. Silver blinked at him for a second but understood him faster this time.

He leaned closer still and whispered against Flint’s lips, “ _Captain._ ”

Flint kissed him as he heard once more the soft sound of Silver’s trousers falling. Except now he was able to let his own follow, was able to haul Silver closer with one hand on his ass as he tried to open the jar of oil with the other.

Silver’s cock was so very hot beside his, soft skin and hard flesh rubbing wetly against their stomachs. Flint pulled away just enough to dump the little amount of oil on them. His eyelids fluttered shut as Silver gripped their cocks in one hand tightly, and he dropped the jar on the floor to grab hold of Silver’s hair.

He could hear Silver smirk as he said, “I told you I could be helpful to you.”

Flint thrusted up against Silver slowly, hips falling back with ever upwards pull, and smiled himself when he heard Silver’s shuddered gasp. “Is this how you’ve help all your captains?” he asked.

“Only the good ones,” Silver managed breathlessly. “Why, you think Dufresne would be interested?”

Flint froze. The words crackled through him like a bolt of lightning through a slate sky, and he pushed Silver against the wall. He held him there with a hand on his chest.

Up close, Flint could see the nervousness in Silver’s eyes, but it never blossomed fully into fear. And he could still feel Silver’s hardness pressing into him. Flint didn't know what kind of expression he wore, but he imagined it was some kind of fury.

Silver swallowed, and gave Flint half a shrug and half a grin. “Only joking,” he said.

Then he added, “Captain.”

Flint brushed a hand against his collarbone, inching closer to his neck. “Turn around,” he said softly.

The nervousness on Silver’s face grew, as he looked ready to try and escape. “It wasn't enough--”

“I’m not going to fuck you,” Flint interrupted, hand drifting up Silver’s neck, caressing behind his ear. “You haven't earned it yet.”

Silver closed his eyes, shivering, but he didn't move. Flint was almost tempted to ask Silver to trust him, but he wasn't foolish. And he was a little afraid that Silver wouldn't.

But then again, Flint hadn't been trusted much in recent years. Perhaps this was what trust looked like, Silver standing there, exposed, unafraid to close his eyes in front of him. Quietly coming to the decision by himself to shuffle around and face the wall, shaking hands scratching into the wood as he held himself up.

“Jesus,” Flint said before he could help himself. “Look at you.” He ran his hands over him in awe. The front of Silver looked good but Christ, the back was exquisite. Flint wanted to suck bruises down every indent of his spine. He wanted to drink the richest red wine from the dimples in the curve of his lower back. He wanted to charter courses to buried treasure using the globes of his ass and he wanted to bite and stroke and fuck it too and when he was done doing all that he wanted to lay his head down on it and finally rest. His hands caressed lower, fingers dancing down the crack to feel the dark hotness between his legs. Christ, in that moment he thought he could live out the rest of his life in that shadow between those thighs.

Silver looked at him over his shoulder, hair sticking to the side of his face. “Whatever you're planning to do,” he said, soft and fast, like he was too nervous to say it, “you should just fucking do it.”

Flint didn’t respond except to rub the whole of his palm against Silver’s balls, his taint, his asshole. Silver’s legs weren’t spread very far due to the trousers bunched around his ankles, and Flint could feel the faint tremble in his legs.

He moved in close, guiding his still-slicked cock between Silver’s legs until it was enveloped in the heat of him, sliding beneath Silver’s length. He grabbed the outside of Silver’s thighs and pushed until they closed tightly around Flint. It wasn’t as tight as it would be if he was fucking Silver, but Goddamn, it was just as warm and as wet, Silver’s desperate panting beneath him as ragged and overwhelming as though he were filled with thick cock.

He pulled Silver flush against his chest while grabbing Silver’s cock. He nosed at the hair tucked behind Silver’s ear, breathing deeply. He loved the smell of him, loved the way Silver moaned at it as he bucked up into Flint’s hand.

“Did I ever get to thank you,” Flint said lowly into his ear, “for saving my life?”

He didn’t give Silver a chance to respond as he started thrusting his hips forward, working Silver’s cock in tandem, though the way Silver threw his head back onto Flint’s shoulder and groaned, the way he clenched his thighs tight around Flint’s cock — seemed like answer enough to Flint.

Quick fucks in the bowels of a ship were more about your own gratification than the other man’s. There wasn’t any time to figure out what the other person liked, and this should have been no different. But Silver didn’t seem to care about timing. He wrapped his hand around the one Flint had on his cock, guiding him just how he liked to be stroked, fast and firm, tightening near the base. He held Flint’s hand over the tip for a moment, letting the head wet the rough calluses on Flint’s palm. Each movement caused a new reaction in Silver, his breath hitching, groans captured behind bitten lips, eyes struggling to stay open every time Flint’s thumb pressed down on the thick vein. Flint found himself wanting to document every response, fascinated by how unrepentant Silver was in his pleasure.

Then Silver’s other hand reached back to grip Flint’s hair, held him in place while he turned his head and bit into the corner of Flint’s lip and over his jaw, rough tongue catching on Flint’s stubble. Silver’s lost moans were now tangible things, layering his skin like thick humidity after a thunderstorm. He rode on top of Flint’s cock, the slap of his ass against Flint’s hips loud and obscene and just close enough to perfect.

“Fuck,” Flint hissed, thrusting feverishly with Silver. “I’m going to fuck you for real when I get this ship back. Gonna coat you with so much fucking oil you’ll be dripping for me, spread open and waiting for me to just slip inside. You want that, right?”

“Yes,” breathed Silver into his ear. “Yes, _please_ , Captain, _fuck_ , I want that.”

“So now you have to help me.” Flint leaned his face into the side of Silver’s, watching their hands work Silver’s cock together. “Because you want me to fuck you so fucking bad, right?”

It was ridiculous. Silver didn’t need any additional incentive to help Flint. Millions in Spanish gold was plenty encouragement, but that hadn’t been enough for others whom he’d needed and that had nearly cost him everything. But Silver was nodding furiously against Flint’s cheek, choking out a “Yes, Captain, _yes_ ,” as he came all over his stomach and Flint’s hand.

He kept stroking Silver through it, even as Silver writhed against his chest, overwhelmed. Flint rested his teeth almost gently against Silver’s neck, the way an animal might calm a dying prey, his hips still moving frantically, the space not quite tight enough to get him there as Silver went limp and relaxed. But then one of Silver’s hands went idly to the cum on his stomach, almost unthinking in his movements as he rubbed it into his skin. It was like he was completing his ritual, bringing two sticky fingers up to his mouth, which was the last thing Flint saw before he closed his eyes and came himself, coating the warm insides of Silver’s thighs.

Flint jerked up once more, groaning into Silver’s skin, before finally falling forward. Silver just barely caught himself on the wall, Flint’s hands coming up beside his to keep from landing entirely on him. One good thing about not doing this face to face was it made avoiding eye contact easier. In Flint’s experience, the only proper way to behave after getting off with another sailor was to pretend it never happened, until it did again. But since Silver had yet to do anything expected in the time he’d known him, Flint had a suspicion he would yet again not follow the proper protocol.

Which was immediately confirmed when Silver turned around under him, looking him right in the eye. With Flint’s hands braced beside his head, they were inches from each other, still breathing heavily. Where Silver’s body had before been perfectly formed against him, it was now tilted towards him, gleaming with sweat and cum and his own rash decisions. Silver was smirking, wasting no time in making Flint believe this whole thing was a horrible mistake.

Then Silver said, “You’re welcome, Captain. Happy to help out in any way I can.”

The ship swayed, or maybe Flint did. He’d never had someone to help him with _anything_. One person to rely on to drag him out of the sea if he needed it, and jerk him off if he needed it. It seemed impossible for one person to accommodate so much for him. But a small voice in the back of his mind, a voice that sounded a hell of a lot like Silver, said that it’s a good job Flint hadn’t fucked him yet. Because the whole thing felt unfinished now, something to maybe be completed at a later time.

He didn’t kiss Silver again, because Flint always functioned better when he was filled with a want for something. What weakened other men only ever made him stronger.

Flint managed to take a step back, pulling his trousers up as he did so. He grabbed his torn shirt off the floor, wiped himself down with it, and tossed it over to Silver. He picked up the new shirt he’d had stolen and put it on.

“Hey,” said Silver as he cleaned himself off. “I thought I was going to wear that.”

Flint left his shirt untucked as he lifted the dead sailor’s shirt and jacket on the ground. Instead of throwing them to Silver, though, he pressed them close into his hands. It made him catch Silver’s scent again, the familiar odor of hard and spent men. So often at sea, the smell of salt and fish, and even gun smoke, clouded every sense, but this earthy, human scent of Silver made him dizzy, made him hunger, made him want to kiss Silver again. But he didn’t.

“I changed my mind,” Flint said quietly. “I want you to wear these still.”

He didn’t say it was because looking at Silver in these clothes would remind Flint of this. He didn’t say it was because it would remind Flint that he was _right_. He didn’t say it was because it would remind him of how easily Silver had stepped up behind him, steadying him, to muffle the sound of a man dying by his hands. He didn’t say it was because Silver looked good in that shirt. He just said he wanted it, and Silver took the shirt out of his hands anyway.

“Whatever you say, Captain,” Silver said knowingly, putting it back on. “You’re the one with all the plans here.”

Truthfully, Flint already had the beginnings of a plan forming for how to get back control of the crew, and he wasn’t sure how Silver fit into it at all. But that day alone he’d escaped the noose, torture, a bullet, and another noose — all with Silver at his side. And there seemed to Flint no end in possibilities for how helpful Silver could make himself. He was confident now he could find some use for Silver, too.

 

* * *

 


End file.
